Sinkhole

by Deborah Jackson

  “If there were such a thing,” said Jorge, stopping at a bend in the tunnel and turning to face Mark. “You speak of the Canadian first peoples, but did you know that one of your first explorers, Champlain, came to Mexico before he began his voyages to Canada? I read about it in my history book in university. His words are imprinted in my mind: At the beginning of the King of Spain’s conquests, he had established the Inquisition among the Indians, and enslaved them, or caused them to die in such great numbers that the mere story of it rouses pity. This bad treatment was the reason that the poor Indians would flee to the mountains like desperate men. We shall see in New France there are no forced conversions.”

  Jorge paused and gave Mark a penetrating look. “You see, this man had more insight than any of the so-called liberal thinkers of today. He could not deny what was right before his eyes.”

  “I wouldn’t deny it if I’d known about it. I would do my best to help your people.”

  Jorge shook his head, his mouth twisted. “Doctor, I have seen you grow as a man during the past few days, but you will never grow past your billfold. Deep down, perhaps, you would like to help us, but you won’t stand with us when the paramilitary send their death squads. My people stood proudly against the Spanish invaders. In the Yucatan they survived the onslaught of the conquistadors for a hundred and fifty years with little more than arrows, lances, and two-handed wooden swords with obsidian blades. But eventually they succumbed to superior strength. The only way we have a hope of ensuring our survival, securing our hopes and dreams, is by superior strength.”

  Jorge halted in front of a hole that seemed to spiral into the ground. He tipped his helmet and sent light cascading down the apparently bottomless pit. As Mark came alongside the guide and looked down, he broke out into a sweat, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t the impending descent that had triggered it.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Kat hovered over Ray, ticking the seconds by on her hand, and desperately hoping for him to recover. One day had passed and an even longer night, although it was hard to distinguish the difference. They’d alternated sleeping, each snatching a few hours before relieving one another to watch over Ray, injecting penicillin every four hours in the standard protocol for treating infection. It usually would take at least a day to see marked results, but, instead of a halt to the infection, his lesions had now turned a sickly blue color and his skin had bubbled and blistered all around them. Then, horror of horrors, the blisters began to hemorrhage, erupting foul-smelling pus and copious amounts of blood. The wound was degrading rapidly. Soon, as with S. pyogenes but at an accelerated rate, gangrene would set in and the hemorrhages would continue internally. Eventually Ray would die from either septic shock or blood loss.

  “Should we give him more penicillin?” asked Megan.

  Kat shifted toward her. She was so pale, she looked nearly as sick as Ray. “No. More would just be toxic to him and help the bacteria kill him. I have to figure out how this organism works.” She pounded her fist on the ground. “And what, if anything, will destroy it.”

  “What’s the point?” asked Pete. “We’re all going to die anyway. Hopefully we’ll get gassed before we die of starvation. Maybe Ray has the right idea—a quick exit.”

  “Quick,” said Kat, “but hardly painless.” Ray moaned, illustrating her point. “Besides, I’m not ready to give up yet. I came down here in the first place because I didn’t want to give up.”

  Pete looked confused, but she wasn’t about to explain. And she’d had enough of his pessimism, too.

  “Pete,” she said. “I want you to check the exit again. Maybe the organisms don’t completely block the tunnel. I want you to see if there’s any chance we can use it to get out of here.”

  Pete rolled his eyes. “There wasn’t a gap in the biofilm. I don’t see—”

  “We might have missed something while we were looking after Ray,” said Kat. “It’s worth a second look. I swear, we’re not going to end up like that poor Mayan fellow by the lake. Right, Megan?”

  The archaeologist chewed on her lip.

  “Megan?”

  “Right,” she squeaked.

  Pete shrugged, fished a flashlight out of his bag, and shambled back toward the tunnel. Kat sighed, thankful to be relieved of his negative energy for a while.

  “Now,” she said. “I have to think about this organism.”

  Ray moaned again. Megan stroked his arm in a decidedly tender gesture, for her. “He’s suffering so much.” She choked on tears. “I wish I could help him. But I can’t even help myself.”

  “Really?” said Kat. “You’ve survived till now. And do you know what would help? Praying for him.”

  Megan met her eyes, her lips quivering. “I can’t pray.”

  “Why not? You said you were Catholic.”

  “It’s just . . . I have trouble believing in anything, anymore. Maybe I blame God for . . .”

  “Megan, stop thinking of yourself. Yes, what happened was horrible and it messed you up, but it’s over. That man was evil. This man isn’t. He needs your help.”

  “What can prayer do?”

  “It’s not just prayer. It’s hope. I don’t have the faith because I didn’t grow up with it, but I think it’s still inside you. You need to have faith, in Ray, in me, in yourself, and maybe even God.”

  Kat reached out and touched Megan’s hand. Tears stole out of the corners of her eyes and her face drooped even more. She clutched Kat’s hand in a painful grip. “Isn’t it too late, even for prayer? Ray’s almost dead. Look at him.” She pointed at his squirming, degenerating body. “You’re dying.” She spread her arms to encompass the entire tomb. “We’re all dying . . .”

  Kat shook her head and tossed Megan a fierce glare. “No, I don’t accept that. I can’t! None of us are going to die!”

  She scrambled to her feet and marched toward the other side of their makeshift camp, where her microscope projected from the pitiful pile of rocks. She slung herself down beside it, willing the modified magnifier to speak to her. The bioluminescent material sent her a mocking wink, but she ignored it and focused, focused. There had to be an answer within the deadly mesh of biofilm.

  Then something clicked. “Where a toxic organism grows, often other creatures develop a certain protection from it. Microbial warfare,” she said, looking up.

  “I don’t get how something so deadly to humans grew here in the first place,” said Megan, her voice still quivering. “I read once that familiarity breeds disease. This organism was isolated until the Maya found it, and it looks like it was the cause of their deaths.”

  “Megan,” said Kat. “Pete and I found more sacrifices by a pond that we think is the source of these microbes.” She paused. “Pete,” she said again, shaking her head.

  “Pete still bothers you, doesn’t he?” Megan asked, with a peaked eyebrow.

  “‘Bother’ is a mild term. Sometimes he just doesn’t seem . . .”

  “Human,” said Megan, voicing what Kat couldn’t entertain.

  “Genuine,” said Kat. “He never mentions anything personal. I have no idea who he really is. I guess he’s just a cold person. I worry, though, that he won’t help us when we might need help.” She shook her head.

  “As long as he isn’t an impediment, who cares?”

  “You’re probably right.” But Kat noticed Pete’s backpack sprawled on the ground, the zipper partway open. As she played her flashlight over it, the neon orange of a biohazard bag blinked back at her. Hardly unusual for a microbiologist, but still . . . Was he expecting something like this bug? She nudged the bag further open. Tucked inside was a compact pistol. A chill washed over her. Yes, they were in dicey territory, in a country with guerrilla activity and numerous drug cartels, but . . .

  “You were mentioning sacrifices . . .” said Megan, calling Kat’s mind back to the task at hand. She couldn’t keep worrying about Pete. The priority was Ray.

  “Right. I think they were sacrifices, anyway
. The anaerobes probably pre-existed the Maya arrival, and they already had an appetite for destroying oxygenated cells, but I think the introduction of those sacrificed bodies accelerated their destructive nature. You’re right, familiarity does breed disease, and the Maya gave these organisms just that contact.”

  Megan’s eyes widened. “Then they must have been holding ceremonies here before the burial of the king.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “It has to do with their cosmology.” Megan’s bleary eyes lit up briefly. “They defined habitable land by the sun’s four solstice rise and set points. At each corner the sun rises and sets from a cave within a mythical mountain. These caves provide access to mountain-dwelling spirits, to the seas beyond habitable land, and to the Underworld. Basically, they looked at caves as portals to reach the supernatural and Xibalba.”

  “Then why would they want to go in them? You’d think they’d be afraid,” said Pete, shocking them both by his sudden and unexpectedly quick return.

  Kat eyed him sharply. How much had he heard?

  “No,” said Megan. “You don’t understand. The earth was sacred, not terrifying. The Maya believed that humans were formed in a mountain cave when the gods combined corn and water. The Maya performed ceremonies and sacrifices in the cave to try to reestablish the connection.”

  Pete tilted his head, but didn’t seem suspicious or angry. Not that he was easy to read.

  “Well,” said Kat, “despite their offerings, or most likely because of them, they began a plague that ended up killing them. The gods were obviously not pleased.”

  Bending over the microscope again, Kat placed her eye on the eyepiece, but the view was unchanged. A tiny spear of light winked at her for a millisecond. Did that flash signify a miniscule rodlike bacterium? But why the bioluminescence? There was usually a reason for creatures to have that specific property—for communication (like fireflies), to attract mates, or for defense against predators. But these were probably self-replicating, and there were no natural predators in the caves that she could determine. That left one other possibility. Finding or attracting prey.

  The thought sent a soul-clutching shiver through her. The luminescence attracted creatures in the dark. Humans, especially. Were they the microbes’ prey?

  Kat shook her head, staggered up, and hugged her chest, nearly giving in to despair. Why hadn’t she been the one to come in contact with the organism? Why did she have to be so meticulous in her sampling technique? What would it matter if she were to die a few months early? But Ray was vital and healthy. It just wasn’t fair.

  She slapped her leg, accidentally hitting the same spot that had previously been slashed on a sharp rock and mildly infected, but now was so cleanly knitted there was no evidence of a wound at all. She remembered the strange sensations from the syrupy substance on her skin after she’d fallen into the lake by the cave rafts. Needles at first, attacking the wound, then a peaceful anesthetizing balm. Could a different organism have been at work—one that functioned as an antibiotic? Could it fight the mechanism that the destructive organism used to eradicate tissue and blood vessels?

  In her heart she’d known the penicillin wouldn’t be enough to stop this virulent infection. Even a soup of broad-spectrum antibiotics sometimes wasn’t enough to stop S. pyogenes, much less this super-aggressive nanobacteria. But another organism that had developed in the same milieu might have the ability to combat the microbe. And she had a sample of that organism in her pack.

  Kat dove to the ground and zipped open the pack, rooting impatiently through the assorted survival equipment. Jammed in the side she found the Petri dish with “cave raft sample” scribbled on the lid. Brimming with hope, Kat leaped to her feet and raced back to the microscope. Pete and Megan looked over at her curiously.

  “Have an idea?” asked Pete, one eyebrow quirked.

  “Possibly,” she threw back, and set to work.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Mark leaned against a limestone pillar, trying to catch his breath after squeezing through the tightest, most tortuous tunnel he’d ever encountered. It couldn’t have been much larger than the sewer pipe leading from his toilet at home, and the fumes inside were almost as noxious. To top that, the tunnel spiraled downward like a corkscrew.

  “Jorge,” he sputtered. “Need to rest.”

  The Maya’s footsteps faltered. He halted in his tracks, then splashed back through the water in the next passage. “Almost there, doctor. Just another day.”

  Mark dug his teeth into his lower lip as he considered how near he was to Kat, yet how unbridgeable the distance seemed when he had no energy left. He shivered in his saturated coveralls and sank to the ground, staring uncomfortably at Jorge. Since their earlier conversation, he hardly knew what to say to the man. Jorge’s situation had sparked some empathy in him, but the Maya’s reference to “superior strength” still sent a current down Mark’s spine. How could a few lightly armed men and a few hundred impoverished civilians possibly fight a war? Was that what Jorge was suggesting? Or did it all come down to bitter revolutionaries and terrorist tactics? If that was the case, no matter what the cause, it was something Mark could never condone.

  “You do look awful, doctor. Maybe we should sleep for a few hours.”

  Mark nodded and felt his eyelashes droop. Jorge rifled through his pack and slapped a strip of withered meat into Mark’s lap before he could drift away.

  “Eat first. You won’t have the energy to wake up, otherwise.”

  Mark jerked himself from his state of near-coma and gnawed at the dried meat. Jorge sat across from him and tore at the flesh. He must be feeling it too, the strain, the strength-sapping pain of this journey.

  Jorge looked up suddenly and met Mark’s eyes. “You have been silent for far too long, doctor. Have I worried you in some way?”

  Mark shook his head and sighed. “Your relentless drive worries me.”

  Jorge swallowed a large hunk, and Mark watched its progress as it rippled down the man’s throat. Jorge smiled. “You have thrust yourself rather admirably into this venture as well. But tell me, why is your wife, Katrina, so driven? Why would she plumb these deep passages and face such risks, especially when she’s ill? Surely these cave bugs are not worth the effort.”

  Mark twisted his mouth and thought about Kat, her wild adventures, her death-defying stunts. He chuckled and then nearly sobbed. “It does seem mad, doesn’t it? I thought she was mad when I first met her, yet her devil-may-care attitude attracted me, too. After I met her father, though, I began to understand. He was a cold, distant scientist, always more fascinated with the world under his microscope than the world in front of him.”

  “Not like you,” said Jorge, grinning.

  Was he being sarcastic? Mark studied him and spotted some softness in his eyes, instead of the usual mockery.

  “Right,” he answered. “I hope not like me. I enjoy puttering with my miniature machines. Maybe I should have been an engineer. But I hope I’m also more connected to the wider world. Anyway, Kat told me that her father rarely spoke to her after her mother died of cancer. She was seven. He buried himself in his work and hardly noticed that she existed. I think she had a very lonely childhood, and some of the crazy stunts are just a way of acting out.”

  “Attention seeking?” asked Jorge. “Do you think she’s still playing a child’s game?”

  Mark gazed at him and licked his lips. “Do you think it’s a child’s game to want attention, to want to be noticed? You may have very little in this part of the world, but if you have a family’s love, you’re probably richer than Kat ever was. You know, sometimes the desperate are capable of anything. I think she was desperate for attention, for love. I felt that need in her. And this mad dash into the deepest cave—maybe she was desperate to survive this bloody disease that’s eating her alive. I know that I’m desperate to find her and persuade her to forgive me.” He looked down, realizing he’d probably revealed too much personal informat
ion to a man who would twist it to his own advantage.

  “Hmm,” said Jorge. “Interesting. Are you expecting sympathy from me? You know when a body is starving, love is the last thing on its agenda.”

  “No, I don’t expect any sympathy, just maybe some understanding. We’re human beings just like you. We may have food in our bellies, but we still experience pain.”

  Jorge chuckled and tucked away the last morsel of meat. “Pain. You’ve only begun to understand the concept. But I’m happy that you’re desperate. We never would have made it this far if you weren’t.”

  Mark bit his lip and withheld the torrent of anger that so often rushed to the surface whenever he spoke to Jorge. He’d witnessed enough pain in his life to know what it was. But Jorge always managed to dig at the most painful spot—his inadequacy, as a doctor, as a husband, but most of all, as part of a class—a privileged stratum of people. He couldn’t speak to him anymore. He turned his back to the man and curled up on the unyielding bed of rock.

  Just before he drifted off, a voice trickled through his fading hearing.

  “It’s okay, doctor. You’ve done well. Better than most of your kind, I assume. But, unfortunately, that’s just not good enough.”

  Ice seeped into Mark’s skin. “My death won’t solve anything, Jorge.”

  A snort of derision echoed through the chamber. “No, doctor. It won’t. Neither will mine. Sleep, and maybe you can come up with a solution that will save both our souls.”

  Mark tried to press back out of his helpless state, but his body refused to listen. What was Jorge implying now? The light fizzled in his brain before he could ponder it further, just as the light retracted from the cavern, to leave a choking, impenetrable black.